Scared into Love

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This isn’t a story about being scared to love. This is quite the opposite.

On a bit of a whim last summer my husband and I decided to join a couple of friends on a trip to New Orleans. I made Will, the planner, promise that the hotel would be nice and clean, and everything else I couldn’t give a damn about. I had decided to visit my folks alone for few days before the trip and flew into to NOLA after my husband and friends had been there for a couple of days. It was raining when I arrived and, as Austin was experiencing a record drought, it was the first time I had seen a drizzle in months.

As I moved through the airport I smiled at the gas lamps and live musicians. I was used to stray guitarists and full bands within airports from living in Austin, but the internal gas lamps had the exact romantic affect on me that they were supposed to incur. I was tired from traveling, but ready to be out and about in a new place.

Will and I are not people who waste time; we dropped off my things at the airport and immediately went right back out to explore. I find the best way to become intimate with a strange city is to walk it’s streets. We wandered through rich areas and poor areas, as well as the French Quarter. Our hotel was a single block from Du Monde’s and I’d stay there again in a heartbeat, even knowing the amount of children that died within its walls.

We walked down cobblestone, by 200 year old homes and areas that had been ravaged by Katrina. Eventually, we found ourselves in a cemetery, all white marble and above the earth. If it’s one thing New Orleans knows well, it’s that buried bodies float. Many of the tombs were beautiful, a handful ornate, a few were vandalized, and some forgotten. I’m not particularly melancholy, but the cemeteries of Louisiana embody a sullen beauty that New England doesn’t quite get to. Spanish moss and bright stone rather than dark earth and old rock.

We passed through Bourbon Street without incident; I appreciate the architecture and I love a good drink, but I can do without wading through puddles of vomit at 10am. We went to the aquarium and even the zoo. There were hat shops, and usual tourist crap vendors, flowers for sale, and plenty of sidewalk performers and artists. Most of all, though, you could smell how old the city was. I felt her past through each cell of my body and the more I explored the more she sunk into my bones. She had been beaten, diseased, dishonored, and raped, and still New Orleans holds her head high, unembarrassed and rather proud by what has made her.

After a couple of days, we decided to take an evening historical tour of New Orleans’ alleys within the French Quarter. The second stop on our night adventure was our own hotel, where we were informed that dozens of school children burned to death in the areas that were now the rooms we had been sleeping in. We learned about paying a man to duel for you on church grounds and of nuns who smothered hundreds of babies to keep their orphanages from becoming overrun with the unwanted. We listened to tales of Civil War atrocities, of slaves burning themselves rather than being torn from their families. We already knew about Delphine DeLaurie and her bizarre bloodlust, but we were surprised to hear that Nicolas Cage eventually purchased her home…and then had to sell fast when his own money ran out. Needless to say, we went back to our hotel in the evening with a shiver down out spines.

But as I leaned on the hotel balcony late that night, I wasn’t bothered by the remnants of the man who hung himself in the floor below me or the children who had burned around me. I felt the cool air, smelled the river, and tried to stare into the apartment across the way, loved so much by it’s residents that they didn’t bother with window dressings. I thought of what it would be to live in such a place. A city flooded and reflooded, burned and buried. Diseased and destroyed. And so very, very beautiful and beloved. It was a city who made those who cared for it even stronger.

For the first time in my life my body and mind ached to be apart of a place I barely knew.

We weren’t in New Orleans long, and we left feeling incomplete. We drove the trip from Nola to Austin, weaving in and out of plantation areas and stark highway. I’ve enjoyed previous vacations, missed the romance or a pretty sunset, remembered an incredible restaurant or a neat day trip. New Orleans was different. We left New Orleans feeling different.

And I’ve been unable to stop thinking about her since.

Mani, Pedi, Puke: A Christmas Tale

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I tend to find myself in awkward, uncomfortable situations on a semi regular basis. I don’t mean to do this, but rarely am I sorry that I did so after the fact. I simply don’t seem to fit in. And naturally I blame my parents for this. It’s every time they said “Just be yourself.”

A family photo when I was 8 years old. I’m sure they asked I just be myself for this, too.

There’s a song by Wilco called Hell is Chrome. It’s about finding yourself fitting into a wonderful, clean, handsome world where you really feel you belong. People like you and help you, and there’s order and organization. That world just happens to be Hell. When I hear that song I don’t think “It is because I am a heathen that I would fit into that place” as the action of being a heathen itself fits into the normal ideas conjured by the word Hell. What I hear is the story of a place that translates into ‘What is one person’s heaven is another man’s Newark. One man’s hell is another’s Oxford.’ That is to say, this world doesn’t necessarily work for me. People pretending to the point of making situations uncomfortable. It’s not that I don’t fit in to Greenwich Village or L.A. or anything like that. It’s just that sometimes it feels like I don’t think I fit in with other humans. Any where. Yet I live here and I do my best to be pleasant and ordinary.

The day before Christmas Eve a few years ago my cousin and I went to get holiday manicures. I like getting manicures. I don’t get them too often because I feel weird paying the equivalent of 2 or 3 hours work to someone who is more often then not an immigrant to my country just to clean my filthy hands. The same applies for pedicures. There’s something that seems uniquely American in having immigrants scrub the dead skin off your feet.

Megan and I went down to this place in Stamford, Connecticut and signed in for manicures. The woman I was placed with quietly asked that I take off my coat and roll up my sleeves to which I complied. Once I settled myself into her chair she begins to scrutinize my nails. In doing so, however, she judged my entire character.

“You…have…uh… very hairy arms,” she forced, choosing each word carefully as she was obviously only recently subjected to English, and smiled genuinely up at me.

“Yes,” I said. When I am insulted I save the emotions for later rants when I’m alone or surrounded by loved ones who have learned to ignore me. The thing was, though, that I wasn’t really offended. Besides, what do you say to that? I knew I had hairy arms and for her to be new to English and correctly identify that fact was pretty good. And I didn’t know where she was from; it could be that in her land a chick with hairy arms was hot shit, in a good way.

I smiled back. She spoke very quietly of the weather and holidays with vast expanses of silence in between. My cousin yelled something to me from a few seats over confirming our plans later in the evening.

“She….your sister?” my nail person asked after Megan and I finished our brief itinerary check.

“No, she’s my cousin.”

“Oh,” my manicurist chuckled. “I thought she your sister, but you would be thin.”

Awesome. No matter how new to American culture, one can apparently always master fat jokes immediately.

“I wish”, I answered dead pan. Of course, if I was her sister I’d probably have some other issues; I like to tell myself there are trade-offs to being hot.

Again, she continued filing my nails in silence. Silence. Nail filing. Nail buffing. It goes on forever. Barry Manilow played off in the distance, singing some ever repeated holiday song that was supposed to get us into the Christmas cheer while visions of Baby Boom–aged woman throwing panties on a stage played in our heads. Right when I was beginning to be lulled into a false sense of security my nail person jumped up, hand over mouth, and ran away. To me it’s obvious that in the incredible glory of my chubby, hairy arms she simply could no longer take being unworthy and left to return to her homeland.

About ten minutes passed, in which I continued to sit in at her chair. I guess other American women would have said something, but I like sitting, and if I’m sitting away from other people it’s even better. Finally another girl came over.

“I’m sorry,” she said, also somewhat new to the language, also speaking quietly.

“She…uh…throw up.”

Well, awesome.

“Megan!” I shouted to my cousin across the room. “I made my nail chick throw up.”

“You would,” Megan explained.

The new girl, still standing, was looking at me nervously, almost as though she were a little afraid. I never ever mean to be an offensive person and I take hygiene to be of upmost important, above all else except maybe booze. I smiled politely, sympathetically at her, as if to say “I will not bite, am not mean or angry, and just want someone to peel this wax crap off my hands.” I also made an attempt to smell better, through shear determined will, just in case. After a very long, very uncomfortable few seconds the new girl did this quick sigh-smile-shrug maneuver, something I’ve since tried to mimic toward my husband at times when I’m not listening, don’t care, and just want everything over with. It was a great move.

Then the new girl sat down and deftly finished my manicure.

In silence.

And that’s the story of my first, and last, Christmas manicure.

Megan & I in July of 2009, when we met up in Las Vegas for a couple of days. We live 2000 miles apart and I miss her daily. That hat was a gift from a SUPER CREEPY dude that kept hitting on her while we had drinks in Margaritaville. But, then, if you’re having drinks at a Jimmy Buffet chain restaurant in Vegas, you’re kind of asking for that to happen.

Here’s What’s Popping in Your Neck of the Woods

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It’s Monday. Yippee.

* Two episodes of Doctor Who have been found, having been assumed lost for the last few decades. Ironically it was Sam that came back to give us the episodes and not the Doctor himself. (That was a Quantum Leap reference in case you’re confused.) [io9]

* I’m not the only one that sees Twilight as poorly written, poorly acted dribble – George Takei does, too! Watch Takei fearless vent his true feelings on the franchise, all while brokering peace between Star Trek & Star Wars. Oh, my!


* Struggling to get in to the holiday spirit? Perhaps this list of 30 Science Fiction/Santa mashups will help. Listen, if Greivous can become one with Christmas, love, and the joy of giving, than so can you. [Blastr]


* Someone has decorated the escalator in the Tel Aviv City Hall to run the entire Star Wars intro story while the stairs incline up. Now we just have to get John Williams pumped through the Muzak service.


* In a recent interview, Steven Spielberg revealed a more sinister side of E.T. Originally based on the Kelly -Hopkinsville Encounter, what became a loveable, Reese’s Peices alien was at first planned to be a mean, green goblin extraterrestrial and was based on a small town’s real life experience in 1955. So, riddle me this, Speilberg: Why, oh why, did you insist upon changing the policemen’s guns to walkie-talkies if the account of the living, breathing aliens were, in fact, actually shot? [Huffington Post]

If you haven’t heard of the Kelly-Hopkinsville Encounter, I highly suggest you at least Wikipedia it. It’s a brief, interesting read, great for a break from work.


* Fashion is finally headed my way with Mordor inspired nail art. One nail to rule them all and with the middle, flip them. [BuzzFeed]


* The trailer to Battleship the Movie. Yes, based on the board game. And, yes, starring the classically paired stylings of Rihanna and Liam Neeson.  [MTV Entertainment]


* Lionsgate has decided to do yet another remake of American Psycho. Apparently because Christian Bale’s brilliant performance in the 2000 remake wasn’t good enough. Lionsgate is looking to make a “…modern day adaptation…”, to which I, again, refer to the 2000 remake. Also, this would be a re-remake, which is as sloppy as it is unnecessary. [ShockTilYouDrop]


* Want to make sure no one steals your iPad? Disguise it as an original Macintosh computer, something so outdated that people will believe ironic fashion has now become ironic technology. I recently got a similar disguise for my iPhone. Now people just assume I’m always carrying around a toaster. [MTV Geek]


* Louis C.K. is easily one of the top performers/writers/directors/comics in the U.S. right now. His self loathing seems to never get tiresome. And his newest special can be obtained from his website for a mere $5, leaving absolutely no reason to not indulge in a little C.K. [YouAintNoPicasso]


* I love Tommy Lee Jones. I really do, which is why I supported him when he decided to take part in Men In Black and its sequel. Now a trailer for Men in Black III has been released. There’s only so much of Will Smith playing himself that I can take. He played himself in Independence Day, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Wild Wild West, and now 3 – count ’em, THREE – Men in Black movies. I….I just don’t know that I can support Tommy Lee Jones any more.